Poke Wars: The Divergence
by Senriyu
Summary: Written with the approval of Cornova and set in the Poke Wars Expanded Universe. "Poke Wars: Divergence" covers what happened to the Unova region after the Dampener Removal. According to Cornova, Divergence is to be treated as a canon addition.
1. Menkov

**Pok****é****Wars**

**The Divergence**

Prologue: A Historical Note from Archivist Novare

Greetings, and welcome back to the National Archives, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT]. I am glad to see that you have taken an interest in our nation's past – and of all things, you seem to have been drawn to the period known colloquially in Unova as "The War of Divergence" (Prof. Aspen, page 19 of _Ho-oh's Holocaust_). Though the entire struggle for mankind's survival through the years until [DATA CLASSIFIED BY UNOVA LEAGUE SECURITY SECTION 4] ended the war, for good. In the aftermath, humanity struggled to rebuild civilization as it once was, and Pokemon struggled to live with their deeds. Indeed, many regions, such as Johto, are still considered disaster areas. Thanks to the tireless efforts of countless historians, reporters, military records, etc., the National Archives have a well-documented account of the wars in the Continental regions. But our homeland of Unova is rather distinct in that very little about what went on all those years ago ever surfaced publicly. Being so far away from the Old Continent, Unova's unique climate, ecology and the very essence of its inhabitants drastically changed the way war was waged here compared to the battles of the Continent. While Pokemon held the upper hand in nearly every other zone of conflict, it was Unova that held the epicenter of the human resurgence and the rise of what is called "The Isshu Heresy" by the Church of Arceus, marked the turning point of the war, globally. Despite this apparent fact, few archivists not from our native land seem to see it the same way. They all insist it was the actions of Trainers from the Continent who saved the day. By reading historical texts from the period, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT], I hope you will feel the need to rebut these other views of non-Unovan scholars and inform the world of Unova's _real_ role in the crisis. Needless to say, I have gathered what I could from civilian sources and high-level military mainframes. The following story is arranged based upon your previous settings and personal preferences, and texts in parentheses denote my addition into the entry of what I deem pertinent information. This terminal will be left open to your unique security clearance for you to access at your leisure. May you continue to receive the blessings of the Goddesses, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT].

_-ECCLESIASTICAL THOUGHT OF THE DAY-_

_The Twin-Souled Embrace the Faithful, and Destroy the Heretic._

Chapter 1: Mission Log #2507-TM6 "Menkov's Expedition"

Dec. 8. Twist Mtn 21:17 Unova Standard Time. Year of Dampener Removal (YDR) 1

One year. One bloody blur of a fucking year. Had it really been just that long ago that Man and Pokémon were living in harmony? (Technically, it had been a year ago the previous August, but we will allow the subject his slight exaggerations for the sake of historical accuracy.) Lieutenant Menkov couldn't remember such a time. Not anymore. Not after seeing what the bugs did to Castelia. The most heavily populated and technologically advanced city on the continent, crown jewel of the whole fucking region, and the biggest port, completely overrun by the enemy. Humans had air superiority, at least for now, but the battle on the ground was stagnant. Supply convoys and troop transports kept getting ambushed in the desert by squads of Sandile, led by their larger, more intelligent evolutions, Krokorok. Losses were getting to be heavy.

Again, Menkov had to remind himself that there was always a price to pay in war. Those men died, but at least they died in the name of Humanity. That was something for their families to be proud of, at the very least.

"Squad, comm check." the officer spoke a clipped command into his helmet's mic, broadcasting over encrypted short-wave frequencies that rotated every few minutes to prevent the enemy from somehow listening in. The replies from the Lieutenant's group came in similar fashion, from left to right in order of their position relative to the commander.

"Sandoval, aye."

"Kreig, aye."

"Garcia, aye."

"Huntsman, aye."

"..." only static was heard from the last man, a Private Nash. Menkov sighed. This damnable mountain. HQ had warned of EM interference, but he didn't think it would be so bad, especially for such a simple thing as short-range communications.

"Nash, report." Menkov spoke over the squad frequency, his voice calm for now. Only silence greeted him. That old wound in Menkov's side from the time he wrestled a Scolipede shirtless (a feat risky at best, and nearly suicidal by anyone's standards) started itching again, too. A bad omen in Menkov's book. The blasted thing only ever itched like that when something life-threatening was about to happen. "Squad, hold position. Someone get me a visual on Nash. Weapons up and safeties off. Set your radars to maximum range and enable IFF sensors on your HUD if you haven't already." a series of affirmatives echoed the commander's speech as his troops disengaged their cloaking devices and pulled out their A586 "Sawsbuck" pattern combat rifles and brought them up to their shoulders. Technically, a platoon this size should have been outfitted with at least one squad weapon, the S205 "Forretress" heavy rifle, but the missing Nash was the one assigned to it.

"Sir, I have a confirmed visual on Nash. He's dead. Icicle went straight through his skull. Odd about the placement of the wound, though...It doesn't look like it went through his armor..." Menkov started at the sound. Sandoval's voice. The squad's sergeant was attentive to detail, but sometimes he forgot where he was whenever he was engrossed in analysis. Menkov chalked it up to HQ being stupid and assigning an intelligence man to black ops. Of course, he wasn't the only "mis-assignment" in this squad. Nash was also the squad's political officer, though it was a purely clandestine role and only Menkov knew anything more than that. To have both a heavy weapons operator and a political officer end up dead in the same mission was a twist of fate too gross not to go unnoticed by Western Command HQ.

Sandoval was going on about the lack of damage to Nash's I305 "Lairon" combat suit when Menkov suddenly heard the noncom swear and start shooting briefly before silence and then static were the only things to be heard from Sandoval's radio.

"Form up and find high ground. Sandoval and Nash are down. We need to find out what silenced them, and kill the fucker. No one else is dying today, gentlemen." Menkov managed to contain his fear as he quickly issued the order to move away from the bodies of their squadmates. He hadn't considered an ambush this soon into the mission. They must have known the humans were coming. But how? That question repeated itself in the officer's mind again and again as the remaining three soldiers, a private, a corporal, and their battle-medic, gathered together near the ridgeline of the crevasse smack dab in the middle of the mountain. Rusting bits of machinery, mostly torn apart along with their operators during the early days of the war lay at the bottom of the slope, evidence of human mining operations here.

Again, Menkov had to shake himself away from his reminiscence. The past was long gone. There was no going back. The bodies of the slain, human and Pokemon alike, were piled too high to ignore. A beeping noise from the medic's suit made Private Garcia swear softly.

"Shut that fucking thing up, doc." The 'doc' in question was tapping rapidly at a glowing rectangular screen embedded in his suit's forearm. Typical of a condensed squad like this; combine multiple squad roles into one soldier. It will save manpower and money, they said. It will increase efficiency, they said. Bullshit. If one man went down, so too did a host of essential functions need by the rest of the squad to survive.

"Krieg. Seriously. Silence that device. You'll give away our position." Menkov ordered sternly in a voice barely audible over comms.

"Goddesses damn it, I'm tryin', boss, I'm tryin'." the medic's soft drawl, at odds with the disciplined sound of his name, was beginning to show signs of panic as he rapidly tapped with more and more urgency at the screen, which just kept beeping all the louder, and more frequently, as if to spite him.

"Krieg, why can't you shut that thing up?"

"...Because it's the aura radar, sir. And its going apeshit. Something _big_ is nearby. I vote we retrieve Sandoval's and Nash's tags, set their suits for blowout, and beat feet outta here." Krieg lowered his weapon and turned to show his commanding officer the readout, but as he did, his whole body suddenly froze up and he began to spasm violently. The other soldiers quickly turned on him and aimed their weapons at their medic before firing quickly into his unarmored face, shattering the electroglass screen that showed Krieg's HUD. His body twitched as the bullets bounced around in his armored helmet, thoroughly shredding his brain and spraying thick, dark blood all over the immediate vicinity, staining the otherwise pristine snow-covered mountainside with a splotch of obscene color.

"Ghost. Filters on, switch to pulse rounds." Menkov's voice was audibly shaking now as his brain fell back on the only thing it could remember – protocol. As one, the three remaining soldiers activated their Silph Combat Omniscopic Peripheral Enhancements (SCOPE for short) – one of the few technologies that was lucky enough to survive the holocaust that was Saffron. The armor-clad special ops troops quickly saw their "unseen" target. A Yamask, holding the image of a broad-faced heavyset male emblazoned on its titular mask. Probably one of the workers here. His face was crying. Always crying. Then again, all Yamask did that. The cursed corruptions of a dead human's soul were forever stuck in a kind of nightmarish limbo. The dampener removal certainly didn't help their fragile sanity, either. Menkov and the others took aim at the creature and fired an aura pulse round – one of the few standard ammunition accepted by the A586 that was proven effective against ghost-types.

"Ya...ma..." the spirit moaned as it dispersed forcibly under sustained fire from the three soldiers. Dispatching their first foe fairly quickly, the remainder of the squad looked around for further enemies that might be hiding in the realm of undeath. Seeing no additional hostiles, and picking up none on heat sensors either, the lieutenant gave the order to stand down weapons and retrieve the wargear and ID of the fallen. While Garcia and Huntsman went to go give last rites to their comrades and retrieve ammo and weapons from the dead men, Menkov knelt down next to the body of their former comrade and removed the identification plate from Krieg's chest armor and aura scanner from his bracer, installing the modular device in his own suit and bringing up all the data its previous owner had seen just before his death. A quick self-diagnostic proved that the instrument was reading true: there was a large aura presence located just meters away from the squad's location. How the hell no one else had noticed it until now –

"Lieutenant! You may wanna come check this out." Huntsman called out over radio. Curious to see exactly what his subordinates had found, Menkov obliged and joined the two men in their vigil over the dead. Of course, these days a vigil was less of a ritual, and more of a necessity. The fact that certain Pokémon were confirmed to have been born from the spirits of dead humans (a revelation made all the more unsettling by the fact that they seemed to have ignored all former ties to humanity when the limiters came off, but they lost none of their intelligence nor their memories from their past lives; the monsters were now a major threat to human self-defense efforts) made it a requirement to watch over the newly deceased, perform last rites, and then keep a weapon handy and a SCOPE active. It didn't take long nowadays to find out who went 'ghost' and who didn't. What Menkov saw only confirmed Sandoval's last report. The two men had been killed by iron-hard and razor-sharp shards of ice to the face, the only vulnerable part of the Lairon-type armor that existed, at least in the minds of the engineers who built it. Menkov remembered Nash bitching about how a correctly aimed projectile could all too easily break apart the supposedly indestructible plates of the squad's Lairon armor that overlay each other to maintain flexibility. Not like he'd be filing a complaint now anyway.

"This is a fucking textbook justification right here. I'm calling in a Psylink." Menkov swore, kneeling down and removing the engraved iridium nameplates located on the breastplates of Nash and Sandoval. Underneath the nameplates, a tiny LED timer blinked to life and started counting down from 12:00:00. In twelve hours, the suits would prime and activate an otherwise stable and harmless agent located at strategic points on the exoskeleton and detonate them, erasing all evidence of human presence or technology. Well, save the large, smoldering crater the size of a minivan. That shit was kind of hard to cover up, unless you were really skilled at making and then concealing pitfall traps and the like. But who on earth would have such an otherwise esoteric and useless skill? Nobody Menkov knew, that's for sure.

Menkov, flanked by his two remaining soldiers, pulled a strange-looking antenna from a recess located just behind his right shoulder's massive pauldron (it should be noted that in those days, the larger a warrior's shoulder armor, the higher ranking they were. Such an illogical and silly method of judging skill and competence as a commander is thankfully nonexistent today, though the current trend of 'My hat is biggest, therefore I'm the boss' isn't much better. Perhaps you could do something about it?). His suit was the only one equipped for long-range communications; another of Headquarters' infallible ideas. Menkov wished he could spit out of his helmet at the sarcasm dripping from that last thought.

"This is Lieutenant Sasha Menkov, Command Authorization Delta-Tango-Epsilon-Zero-Five, Requesting Priority Alpha access to the Psylink. Status is critical." a pause, and then a sepulchral voice seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

_**YOUR REQUEST HAS BEEN ACCEPTED, MENKOV. I AM PRIMARY ADJUNCT METAGROSS. PSYLINK IS NOW ONLINE. PREPARE FOR MERGING AND DATA EXCHANGE.**_

__A slight twinge in Menkov's brain (Apparently one _can_ feel inside one's own brain. I have heard it is a rather interesting and unsettling sensation.) and suddenly the massive mental presence of the Psylink's adjunct was there with him, sharing his consciousness in real-time, processing his experiences twenty percent faster than any Unovan technology the humans possessed and formulating a three-day battle plan with fourteen diverging secondary and tertiary strategies to help the survivors, completing all of this in ten seconds flat. This was the Psylink – humanity's trump card.

"**We have completed identification of the remaining enemy. A group of Beartic are-"** the Menkov/Metagross mental link was interrupted forcibly by a large serrated claw covered in icy blades emerging from the snow and sending the smaller human flying some twenty feet away into a snow bank. Garcia and Huntsmen wasted no time in shooting at the claw with their standard ammunition, only serving to anger the appendage's owner more as it emerged from its icy disguise along with its fellows, who glared at the smaller figures before the head of the first Beartic simply exploded without warning. The source of the localized blast was a satisfied-looking Huntsman holding a pair of A385s and grinning at his own mental image of how badass he must look while the barrels of his rifles cooled from the aftermath of the third type of ammunition carried by the group.

"You got to use the self-propelled incendiary rounds. You lucky bastard." Garcia commented offhandedly to Huntsman as the remaining Beartics took stock of this new development and attempted to clean their comrades' gore off of their pristine white fur. It didn't seem to be working all that well; Beartic ichor was viscous and a dark blue, and was notorious for being nearly impossible to clean off of something once it was there. Many a primitive human hunter had battled these creatures in the seas of the frozen north, and often it was only by wounding the beasts and retreating could they see the predator's next assault coming, the color of its blood effectively ruining its Snow Cloak ability.

"Eeyup." Huntsman replied dryly, tossing his combat rifles aside in favor of Nash's heavy rifle, lying discarded near his feet. Of course, instead of waiting for the unwieldy hunk of alloy and ceramic to warm up and begin targeting, he took hold of the barrel in his armored hands and proceeded to wield the thing like a medieval mace, flailing about at the nearest bipedal ursa with brutal efficiency. The Beartic, responding in typical Beartic fashion, froze Huntsman's armor in mid-swing with its icy breath and ripped open his faceplate, glaring at the smaller human before the massive beast tore out his face with a paw, crushing his skull inside his helm and sticking the torn flesh and skin onto its icy beard in some kind of macabre decoration. One of the other Beartic seemed to find this hilarious, its guffaws slowing its movements as it reached for Garcia only to be rebuffed by an uppercut followed by a twenty five centimeter-long monomolecular blade being shoved into its sternum. The creature bellowed in pain and rage, staggering back a few steps and taking Garcia's knife with him before launching an icy blast of freezing energy from its maw and ripping the blade out of his body with a savage motion, dropping the melee weapon disdainfully and charging his foe full-force, only to be met on equal terms by the Lairon armor's reinforced exoskeleton, giving the soldier enough brute strength to hold his own against the much larger Pokemon.

"How the fuck do they know about the faceplates?" Menkov's first words since being ejected from the battle was a question he would have paid quite a lot of money (certainly, at his current rate of pay, an amount he never would have been able to actually procure, regardless of however good his credit was) to have answered. Hauling himself up from the pile of snow, he noticed that his Psylink antenna was snapped in two; with it went any further assistance that Metagross could have provided the humans. Garcia was too busy to issue a response; he was pinned to the ground in a death roll with his opposite, and the two were so busy trying to kill each other they didn't notice the mountain's edge until they had been free-falling for a good ten meters or so, by which time it was too late and the pair came to an understanding that this was just how things worked and it was nothing personal, so all things considered it had been pleasant working with each other.

That's how an idiot would put it. In reality, the pair kept smashing each other's vital points (in Garcia's case, the Beartic was attempting to strike at the Lairon armor's vital point) with their fists (or in the Beartic's case, paws) until impact, upon which the Beartic made an excellently satisfying squishing noise, and Garcia wasn't splattered so much as he was liquefied from the inside due to a lack of impact mitigation in the armor's design. Menkov made another mental note to alert the engineers to their lack of foresight. He then made an addendum to that note to beat the living shit out of those engineers once he'd alerted them to the exosuit's failings. (It is interesting to note that this is the first recorded combat situation in which the I305 "Lairon" Mobile Infantry Self-Contained Pressurized Environmental Combat Survival Exoskeleton is mentioned. Could Menkov's team have been beta-testing prototypes? The deliberate mention of the officer's need to inform military engineers of the armor's performance in real-world combat situations – something only done by Research and Development agencies – lends some credibility to this theory.)

Now there was only Menkov and a single Beartic left. The squad's vitals monitoring subroutine in Krieg's suit was still working, ironically, and a tiny window opened on the corner of Menkov's HUD, alerting him that his suit was performing first aid and trauma prevention by injecting a cocktail of chemicals and adrenaline into his bloodstream. It wasn't the best method of fixing a soldier up, but often it kept a man fighting for hours when normally he would have died of his wounds. The Beartic let loose a long breath over its claws, adding more mass to its already deadly weapons. As Menkov drew his own combat knife, he looked down at his broken A385. The durable polymer composite had been crushed under the weight of Menkov's armor, making it useless as anything but a very large doorstop, and even that function was questionable at this point. Menkov would mourn for his firearm later. Right now there was a Beartic to-

Speaking of Beartics, Menkov's opponent suffered no illusions of chivalry and while the soldier's gaze was elsewhere, the Pokemon wasted no time in rushing the human and striking at his torso with an icy fist, the force being enough to knock the officer back down again, but at a cost. Though the Lairon armor was unmarked, the Beartic's rime-covered paw had been shattered by the force of the impact. The creature's entire arm now hung limp, and had it not been in a battle to the death, it might have even whimpered or cried out in pain. Menkov slowly got back up, edging around his foe and warily taking stock of the new development. He was no worse for wear, thankfully – for once, the Lairon had served its intended purpose.

"Found out we humans aren't so squishy anymore, huh? Ain't that a bitch. Now it's my turn." Menkov's voice emanated from an external speaker located in a recess of his helmet for his opponent to hear, the taunt only serving to make the Beartic cease the clutching of its shattered arm and growl menacingly at Menkov, who didn't seem to be phased by the intimidation tactic. (Military reviewers later determined that the Lairon armor's video recording of the ensuing battle between Lieutenant Menkov and the Beartic alpha was so graphic, that it was ordered never to be released with the rest of his report to the general staff. Indeed, my sources have failed to locate the file in any government database, official or clandestine. I apologize for my failure here and beg your pardon. The report does continue some time later, however, but I understand that you have important business to attend to. This terminal will now initiate hibernation and await your return, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT].)

-_ECCESIASTICAL THOUGHT OF THE DAY_-

_Serve the Twin-Souled and Your Rewards are Many. Resist Them, and Only the Void Awaits You._


	2. Cygnus

**Message from Archivist Novare**

P:/Status: Terminal standby ended. Credentials recognized and accepted. Encrypted network tunnel established and secure: initializing communications protocol.

Thank the Goddesses you are all right, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT]! That uproar you caused in the Unovan Senate will certainly gain you some media coverage in international circles. While I am flattered that you would go out of your way to tell others about what we discussed, I must beg of you to use caution. There are some secret factions from the old war that would appreciate not having their existence revealed in this day and age, and your life may be at risk if you try something like that again. I am just an old scholar, and of no threat to them, but you... You would be a target.

…

I beg your pardon, sir. Of course you would know the consequences of your actions. You wish to know more about the War of Divergence? Very well then – I will comply, but only so long as you understand that I am doing this because I feel that you must be educated, and not for your own curiosity. Now, I know how fond you were of Lieutenant Menkov, and you wish to learn of his fate, but I must ask for forgiveness when I say that this next entry does not necessarily feature Menkov at its center. You see, I have cross-referenced the genealogical records with these historical entries, and it turns out we may have found a female ancestor of yours! As for whom, my colleagues and I are not exactly sure, but the DNA analysis has narrowed it down to one of two possibilities:

The first woman was in her mid-to-late teens as of YDR 1, and a Pokémon Trainer, registered as a 'Psychic'. Her name, as far as we can deduce, was Cygnus. Before the dampener removal, she was here on a student visa from Kanto, and her registered Pokémon partner was an Alakazam by the name of Psyrus. It seems that she became notable during the war only as a mystery of medical science: her right eye had been seared shut by horrific scarring and she was missing her right hand, yet somehow she managed to see and manipulate objects with greater skill, speed, and clarity than any normal human. Another interesting note was that despite her disfigured state, she was widely regarded as one of the most beautiful women that had ever graced Unova. She was truly a fascinating subject of historical study.

As for the second candidate…she does not come in to our tale until later. As such, these files only contain data regarding Cygnus. I apologize for the inconvenience, but when I reveal the identity of this person, you will understand why I am taking such precautions. Knowledge of her, and of her possible relation to you, would be extremely dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands, or even worse, the hands of the government. My colleagues and I are kept safe from their wrath by divine mandate and extremely strong laws; you, on the other hand, are not so immune. For your own sake, I will give you the information you seek, but only when you are ready for it.

The ghosts of the past are waking up, sir. I suggest you keep a weather eye open and a weapon nearby at all times.

-_ECCLESIASTICAL THOUGHT OF THE DAY-_

_Through service to the Twin-Souled is Humanity made pure._

**Chapter 2: You Audino Better**

Cygnus woke up from her fetal position on the icy tunnel floor feeling surprisingly refreshed. That was a rarity; the normal sensation she experienced was being incredibly cold and hungry. The normal sensation, of course, actually made sense: it was brutally cold on Twist Mountain in the winter, and Cy had long since had her remaining food stores stolen by Cubchoos. Now she was lowered to scavenging and having to fight other Pokémon in order to eat once in a while. Slowly, she uncurled herself and extended her mental awareness outside of her own body to check for possible threats. Nothing too dangerous; a bunch of weak low-level Pokémon had all gathered around some bigger shapes on the mountainside just beyond the tunnel Cygnus had taken over. It seemed the scavengers were out in force today – something had gotten itself killed, and now everything nearby was busy feasting on their former comrade's corpse.

"Hrimthur. Come out and do recon for me. Try not to blow your cover." the girl ordered curtly, trying to hide her distaste. Taking a startlingly sapphire-blue Poké Ball out of her belt, she pressed the center button to release a large Cryogonal, its size and markings making it obvious that it was one of an elite few, a rare alternate color form. The Ice-type glared at Cy, but hummed its assent and floated away, out of the tunnel entrance hidden by Cy's illusory powers and into the icy cold domain that was its home until six months ago.

_**There are dead Beartic here. Humans, too.**_ The Pokémon reported telepathically through the mental link it was forced to share with Cy, adding the presence of humans only as an aside. On the pretext of attempting to identify them, Hrimthur floated up to one of the corpses and tried to gnaw on its leg; finding only hard, frozen metal and ceramic alloys caused it to swear in the native dialect of its species and spin rapidly around in agitation. Cryogonal were carnivorous by nature, and when Cy didn't get to eat, neither did Hrimthur. The Ice-type was just as hungry as its human master, and even more irritable. Feeling a little cruel, the Pokémon floated over to the weaker creatures gathered around the dead Beartics and blew them all away with a combination of Frost Breath and Rapid Spin. (It is rare to see Pokémon combine techniques they know into new attacks all on their own. Usually, a Trainer is responsible for teaching such nonlinear thought.) Hauling its prize towards its maw with chains created from icy cold energy, it devoured the entirety of the remains in a few short gulps.

Still feeling a bit peckish, the Pokémon proceeded to float around the rest of the battlefield, consuming the remnants of the other Beartic, and even trying to pry one of the dead humans out of that strange inedible shell that these specimens all seemed to be wearing. Failing that, Hrimthur examined them to see which one would make its master the happiest (not out of any desire to please, but rather out of a driving need to make the woman indebted to it. The Cryogonal had been an eccentric before the dampener removal, and without them it had been free to explore its increased powers in strange and most certainly perverse ways). It took the freshest-looking human of the group, (by 'freshest', we assume Hrimthur meant the only one not missing a face or looking like a rag doll at the bottom of a mountain) wrapped it up in chains, and dragged the heavy thing back into the cavern with all the gentleness of a woodsman transporting his livelihood.

_**This human didn't smell of death like the others, but he is still covered in this abominable shell. I can't get a good taste. Can you get it off of him? He might be go**__**od eating. **_The Cryogonal intoned to its mistress, who knelt down next to the frozen figure and brushed layers of ice and snow off of its visor.

"Shut up, you. We're not eating him – and you told me I was the only human you'd ever eat." Cygnus replied tersely, giving the Pokémon an odd look that the Cryogonal enjoyed immensely, letting off small tendrils of steam. _**It's true, I did tell you that when we first met. The taste of your flesh was absolutely wonderful on the palate. **_Cygnus both glared and blushed at the strange compliment, but returned her attention back to the stiffened human body in front of her, a stray lock of her light purple hair (a family trait that appeared whenever a child with psychic abilities was born…or so we assume) falling down over her eyes, only to be brushed away by a gentle chain extending from Hrimthur. "Thanks, Hrim." Cy murmured offhandedly, firmly focused on delving the frozen human with her psychic gifts, searching for the slightest resonance of aura.

(I think now is an excellent time to explain the very strange relationship between Cygnus and her Cryogonal, Hrimthur. You see, after the death of her Alakazam due to the dampener removal, Cygnus's journey led her to Twist Mountain. There, she was ambushed by a large, oddly colored Cryogonal, who nearly violated her and when she resisted with her psychic powers, bit off her hand. Of course, clever girl that she was, Cy had managed to conceal a Poké Ball in said hand, capturing her amorous and most carnivorous foe as it fed upon her. We did a psychological analysis on her historical profile, and we have a strong suspicion that the reason Cy kept Hrimthur around after the attack is that she had a latent psychic fetish for bondage scenarios. The two of them make for an odd couple by most people's standards. I apologize if this embarrasses you or offends some sense of propriety, sir. I merely thought it prudent to inform you of what was going on in the background of the situation so you would understand.)

There seemed to be very little to find; most of it was located in the armor, and in a rectangular device that was latched on to the mystery man's arm. Poking the ice-covered panel of said device in an attempt to figure out just what exactly it was proved to be interesting: an angry red text declaring that the subject was in stasis and could only be revived by a level 5 or higher Certified Field Medic appeared in response. It then asked for some form of ID. Cygnus stared blankly at the thing. She had no clue what the thing wanted, but she input the only ID she could think of – her Trainer number. A few seconds later, after watching what looked like a tiny hourglass spin around in some sort of deliberation of thought, the screen became a friendly blue in color, and displayed the text: 'Trainer ID accepted. Initializing reanimation sequence per Magnolia Protocol.' What the hell was a Magnolia Protocol? Neither Cy nor Hrim had any idea what the hell was going on, but the suit quickly helped them find out.

Its frozen form quickly began to warm up, causing a rapidly growing pool of water underneath the armor as months of exposure to the cold was washed away by a chemical reaction in a subdural layer of the armor's exoskeleton creating immense heat. A bright metal tablet, roughly an inch across, caught Cy's attention. Located on the human's armored chest, it displayed a series of numbers, followed by a name.

"Sasha Menkov, Lieutenant, Unovan 1st Infantry Division, Castelian Death Brigade," Cygnus read aloud, curious as to why a soldier from Castelia would be frozen on the side of a mountain. "What an odd name."

"I happen to like it." A voice declared hoarsely from a speaker in the helm, causing Cy to reflexively jump back and Hrim to take the opportunity to wrap her in chains, presumably to 'protect' her, but most likely to cop a feel. Slowly, the armored human got to his feet, standing at an impressive two meters high and looking like a one-man juggernaut. Taking stock of his surroundings, the man started and tried to take up a combat stance when he saw the huge Cryogonal glaring daggers at him, but couldn't due to the fact that his leg then decided to give way in a most painful of manners.

"Shit! I'm still injured? Why the hell did you wake me up from emergency stasis, woman? The whole purpose of putting that feature in was that it was supposed to keep me alive until a retrieval team can get me to a hospital. Now I'm as good as dead, and what the rest of my team died to acquire dies with me." Menkov swore through the pain profusely as his medical app popped up on his HUD and displayed a 'You're Fucked' message, which Menkov didn't know it could do until now. However, given his current predicament, he couldn't help but agree with it.

"Well, excuse me for trying to help. If it wasn't for Hrim and me, you'd still be out on that mountainside getting dry-humped by a Cubchoo. And for your information, I _was_ trying to save your life. I'm an aura-caster." Cy bit back from her chain-cocoon, hovering a few inches above the ground thanks to Hrimthur's power. Menkov's helmet turned, and his polarized faceplate went transparent to reveal a gaunt, lean face, ashen gray eyes looking closely at Cygnus with curiosity. Cygnus stared back at him arrogantly, before remembering where some of Hrimthur's chains were touching and her face began to turn a shade of bright red, giving the Pokémon an embarrassed telepathic order to release her. The chains slid away and let her gently back onto solid ground, though the Cryogonal hovered closely nearby in a rare display of protectiveness.

"You're a Psychic? Why didn't you say that sooner? My suit's got something called a Psylink – the regular relay is destroyed, but the hardware is still intact. I bet if you can run a psychic pulse through my suit while I'm activating a recall beacon, I can trigger a localized temporary quantum uncertainty field and teleport myself back to base." Menkov began to look hopeful, but Cygnus merely stared at him incredulously.

"I have no fucking idea what the hell you were rambling about just now, but if you have a way to teleport and I'm your only battery source, fine. But I want to be paid." The girl responded, thinking of how she could turn this situation to her advantage. Soldiers never went anywhere without rations, right? And this guy probably had plenty of rations on him. Military foodstuffs were always high in protein and caloric content; to Cy, it was worth a lot more than those stupid blue shiny gemstones she'd found near the back of the cave.

"Pay you? Why on Unova would I do that? This isn't a capitalist society anymore, girl. We abolished currency to return to a system of unified barter values. Besides, you should feel honored that you get to help the war effort. We're not just in this for ourselves, girl. Unova fights for the survival of civilization, hell, mankind, as we know it." Menkov replied incredulously in between painful grunts as he clutched his damaged limb. Cygnus was silent, but her expression was such that if it had been put into words, it would have the verbal equivalent of a plane full of high-altitude fetish nymphomaniacs – that is to say, something extremely obscene.

Hrimthur ended the stalemate by extending one of his many chains and forcibly removing Menkov's dorsal component, which contained among other things his suit's power supply, his rations, and a few other experimental technologies that the soldier had been issued, but unfortunately had been unable to put into use due to the fact that his entire team was now probably blown into tiny particles outside. Menkov stopped clutching his leg long enough to try and seize hold of his suit's power source before his suit abruptly went inert, locking up and falling over stiffly onto its side, appearing for all intents and purposes to have become nothing more than an extremely expensive piece of statuary. With the loss of power, Menkov's faceplate became opaque again, showing only the mirrored green finish of the electroglass. Cygnus stared unblinkingly at Menkov's immobile form for a moment before exchanging a loaded look with Hrimthur.

"Shit. I think you broke him, Hrim," the Psychic remarked with mild anxiety at the soldier's lack of ambulatory function. As she moved in closer to examine the strange metallic man-thing that was currently occupying prime real estate inside of her residence, a small thought began to grow and a quick use of her telepathic abilities confirmed her hypothesis with a rush of dread. Without an energy source to power the suit's functions, the self-contained armor was nothing more than a deathtrap. In a matter of minutes Menkov would run out of air and asphyxiate, having been suffocated by that which was supposed to ensure his survival through the harshest of environments. Working frantically, Cygnus pawed over every nook and cranny of the soldier's helmet for what seemed like an eternity before she finally found the manual release switch at the base of the skull and pressed it, yanking off the Lairon armor's helmet with a jerk of telekinetic force and revealing Menkov's face, which was wearing an expression of slight anxiety mixed with despair and not a little bit of rage.

He exhaled with relief before breathing deeply, his skin slowly losing the deep red color they'd had as the officer had, with but a second to react before his suit had failed, held a massive lungful of air while the Psychic had fidded around with his helmet's release switch. Still paralyzed and in incredible pain, as well as the new development of being in an uncomfortable position on his side, Menkov was left with no other option but to spew a stream of obscenities. He was interrupted mid-invective by his mouth forcibly being closed shut, the source of which being a small psychic effort from Cygnus. The soldier glared at her, but he was grateful he hadn't bit off his tongue due to the sudden interruption.

"Now now, watch your language. I would've expected that from a Sailor, not a soldier of Castellia." The Trainer admonished teasingly, slowly releasing the pressure from his jaw and granting him the power of speech once more.

"I don't take orders from you, bitch. If you're going to kill me, kill me. If not, then make your Cryogonal put that component he stole off of my suit back on." Menkov bit back, while still uselessly writhing in pain within the shell of his motionless Lairon armor, looking more and more like a mutilated, helpless Tirtouga, albeit one that could, instead of its name, speak only swears and foul oaths in the human tongue.

Cygnus smiled. "Ah, but you forget two things, Lieutenant Sasha Menkov. The first is that I'm a Psychic. The second is that you're really in no position to negotiate here. Right now, not only are you unable to move or act, but I can throw you out into the cold to freeze to death, let you bleed out and die of your wounds, or simply set you outside, keep you warm, and watch you get picked apart by the scavengers and lesser predators that tend to roam these slopes this time of year. So, I think you'll be taking orders from me if I desire it." The young woman had a predatory gleam in her eye as she extended her good hand outwards and placed it upon Menkov's forehead. 

"W-what are you going to do to me? I'm warning you, girl. Stay out of my mind. I hold secrets inside my head that would get you killed just for knowing they exist without express permission." Menkov actually looked apprehensive for once. Merging with a Metagross via the Psylink was fine by him – it was a proven technology that was safe, and it anesthetized the physical sensation of having another consciousness share one's mind behind layers of computer programming and human-crafted hardware safeguards designed specifically to prevent a Psychic-type from going where it wished and tampering with whatever it saw fit to alter inside of a human host's brain. He'd never experienced the powers of a human Psychic – the majority of them were taken away for 'training' as soon as their abilities manifested; many families never saw them again. Those psychics that did interact on a regular basis with others, such as those serving in the Unovan Guard, usually liked to keep to themselves and always found places to be alone, away from most people; strangely, though, they seemed to have no problem with the priesthood.

(When asked, most reply in a variation of three generic statements: 'I can lower my guard and relax when an Ecclesiastic is nearby. My mind is at peace with Ecclesiastics around. The Ecclesiastics are our friends.' I don't know about you, but that sort of statement reeks of brainwashing and hypnotic suggestion. I suspect the Church of Dualism was behind the identification, training, and control of individuals with emerging psychic potential, but to what end, I am not so sure of. It does not bode well for us, my lord, if such practices are still in effect.)

Sometimes one would encounter a rare Psychic Trainer who had decided to officially join the fight; they were seldom seen, had a habit of seemingly appearing out of thin air, and they often gone shortly afterwards, just as abruptly as they'd arrived.

(From what we can gather, these Trainers were used as deep-cover operatives, masking their mental and physical presence with their abilities and using their Pokemon allies to observe, infiltrate, and sabotage enemy forces far behind the front lines. It is highly possible that these Trainers later formed the cores of what later became the Observers and the Arbiters, given their similar tactics and high percentage of Psy-enabled humans and Pokemon.)

"Oh, well. I just said all that stuff earlier to mess with you. I was actually going to try and heal you. But now that you mention it, I am kinda curious to see what exactly goes on inside a soldier's head…"

_**You'll be sorely disappointed, Cygnus. Soldiers are thick-headed and simplistic in both their philosophy and their thoughts. They think only of killing the enemy and keeping themselves alive. It **__**is an existence hardly better than that of a primitive wild animal.**_ Hrimthur interposed, deliberately and carefully destroying the strange pheromones he had detected emanating from 'its_'_ Cygnus. (it seems that Cygnus's Cryogonal, in addition to being an eccentric deviant – despite technically lacking any sort of gender – also holds a very proprietary sort of 'ownership' on its Trainer. Apparently, its reasoning is that because it was the first one to taste her blood, and it has been her sole companion all this time, Hrimthur is the only one Cygnus should ever have feelings for – romantic or otherwise. While this is certainly a hopeless cause, one cannot admire Hrimthur's devotion to a human it would have killed and eaten otherwise.) Having what was to be a fun and unique experienced ruined so forced Cy to sigh in resignation and visibly deflate. Here she was, having a good time at someone else's expense, and Hrimthur had to come along and insult the fellow. That was her job, damn it! Plus, he ruined the whole experience of searching a stranger's consciousness – she hadn't mind-dived in ages, and the girl had been sort of looking forward to this chance to practice her skills.

"Hrim, quit being an ass and get back in here." Cygnus ordered in a hard voice, levitating the sapphire-blue orb that normally housed the Pokemon and pressing the center button with an application of telekinetic force of a much weaker type than the one used to fling Menkov's Lairon helm off of him. 

_**…That's what she said.**_ The Pokemon replied without missing a beat, giggling immaturely as it dematerialized and returned to the simulated environs within the Poke Ball. The Lairon armor's power supply was, thankfully, left behind after the Cryogonal's banishment – Hrim apparently had decided it wasn't worth getting bitched at by Cygnus if he took it with him, and so released it from the embrace of his chains before leaving the field.

Menkov, too, snickered at the situational jest, but immediately regretted it as he discovered that he'd probably bruised a rib, judging from the way his chest cavity hurt like fuck when it moved.

"Well, now that that's over, do you mind actually healing me and putting my suit's power supply back on? I'll give you whatever rations I can spare in exchange. How does that sound?" the older man decided to change tack and adopt a more empathetic tone in order to soften up the half-crazed hyper-empowered teenage girl. With any luck, his gambit might pay off and she'd forget about trying to pry into his mind.

(By an odd coincidence, the exact phrase 'Half-Crazed Hyper-Empowered Teenage Girl' is an extremely popular animated television show in certain overseas regions. I've heard that animation as both a medium of communication and an expression of artistic worth has come quite a ways in recent years. I happened to watch an episode the other evening, and it seems like an interesting show. You would certainly like it, sir. It's got all of your favorite things: [OBSCENE CONTENT CENSORED BY UNOVAN COMMUNICATIONS OFFICE – MORALITY AND DECENCY DEPARTMENT]. See? I knew you'd go for it.)

Cygnus looked thoughtful for a moment. A drop of water fell from a stalactite farther within the cavernous depths and its echoes reverberated all the way back to the pair of humans, the sound magnified in their minds by the tense silence that had overtaken the two of them.  
>"…Sure, why not. Seems legit." The Psychic flashed Menkov a confident, happy smile and placed her hands above his forehead, gathering the energy she would need to assist her in this task from the environment around her. She had an agreement to fulfill.<p>

[End]


	3. Anderson Part 1

**Chapter III**** (Part 1)**

**Unova National Archives Mainframe, [DATE REDACTED] 20:34:12 UST**  
>SYSTEM MESSAGE: Warning. Foreign intrusion detected at network hub Nvma21c port 8044. Unauthorized login credentials detected. Securing and shutting down all access ports and terminals. Firewalls ineffective. Attempting to trace MAC address and IP of intrusion...ERROR CODE 404 – intrusion source not found. Emergency encryption of secure data to Level 8 and above: authorized by Magnolia Protocol #YDR912Opc. Encryption complete. Warning. System defenses compromised. Initiating emergency shutdown and network purge protocols. Corruption detected in login registry. UserID "NovareQ" accessed at 20:35:41 UST. Administrator password accepted. Disabling all security protocols and erasing access logs for Nvma21c from [DATE REDACTED] to [DATE REDACTED]. Welcome back, Archivist. Startup script CastelRec now running. Now sending data through secure port [DATA CLASSIFIED] to terminal ID#[REDACTED BY ADMINISTRATOR PRIORITY OVERRIDE]. Warning: an unauthorized attempt to access your account was detected. Recommend immediate security sweep and randomization of all user passwords. SYSTEM MESSAGE confirmed received. Administrator command accepted. SYSTEM MESSAGE will be deleted. This system log will not show up at your next login.<p>

**Castelia City, March 4 YDR 2 11:20:56 UST**

"Imagine yourself at the docks of Castelia at sunrise. The waves are smooth, almost glassy, and the wind is blowing in from the sea northwards, giving the air a salty tang that refreshes you as you inhale. The heat is only noticeable if you stand under the sun for a long period of time; the breeze takes care of mitigating most of it. Smells surround you, both unique and mundane. What do you feel, General?" a mousy-haired man sat on a silken chair holding a tablet device and watched his patient silently, politely not attempting to push the General into saying something. The psychologist had never dealt with a man this fundamentally different from other people in his career; he'd also never been a doctor to a member of the military, but it seemed that these days if you didn't work for the military, you were in the manufacturing plants or the farms out in the hinterlands. The doctor was a pacifist, but he was also not accustomed to manual labor – he had a Ph. D, for Arceus' sake. This made his job as a military mental health consultant all the more desirable for him. After all, if he screwed up and was conscripted, he'd have to serve under his former patient. The psychologist didn't give himself very good odds of survival, knowing what he knew about the man seated on the couch opposite him.

"What do I feel? I _smell_ oil; sweat dripping down my skin; ozone from weapon discharge; burning flesh; deadly toxins seeping into my body and turning my insides into mush. I see ruined buildings, still smoldering from our aerial bombardments, and the corpses of the fallen. My eyes begin to water from the heat of the flames given off by our thermal compound explosives. I feel the slickness of blood beneath my boots, the blood of all species, human and Pokemon, being spilled simply to please our masters. I feel like I am at war, doctor. It is the only feeling I will ever know until I close my eyes for the last time," The General replied flatly, his face looking about as expressive as a wall of granite. He had no idea why command wanted him to talk with a cowardly pansy that was too much of a chicken-shit to grab a rifle and serve in the army like a real man. He could sense some of the doctor's thoughts and feelings occasionally, being a psychic - not that anyone outside of the intelligence community knew about it - and the man's secret retention of Arceism was another mark against him in the General's book.

The physician sighed and scribbled some notes with a stylus on his tablet, making another comment about the inherent psychotic aggression that seemed to be barely contained by the patient. It seemed he was getting nowhere with the stoic commander. "Very well, then. That's all the time we have for today, sir. I'll see you again next week." The General didn't need to be told – he was already out the door by the time the doctor had looked up from his tablet to check the wall clock.

General Douglas Anderson was a stocky man of below-average height and swarthy looks. A mild-mannered government clerk before the war, he was somewhere about fifty years of age, and his body had begun to show it in the rapidly increasing amount of silver in his thinning mud-brown hair. He'd never been much for aesthetics anyway, and his change in profession hadn't altered his worldview one bit – beauty did you no good in an occupation where death and dismemberment were everyday hazards. His face was in a permanent state of carefully arranged calm while out of his armor; when he wore it, his expression became one of an unending rage fueled by a blood lust that any sane man knew would never truly be sated in just one lifetime.

However, there was something about the old bureaucrat that had warranted his promotion to High Commander of the Unovan First Legion – his absolute zeal and savagery on the battlefield combined with his uncanny ability to command others to fight longer and harder against odds that seemed insane to others - even suicidal. His early conversion to the Church of Dualism and the Church's immediate recognition of his combat potential made him one of the oldest and most militant members of the Plasma Knights – a fact that was tolerated by the others due to the amount of fear he could inspire in anything that met his gaze on the battlefield, be it friend or foe. Anderson was once fond of light jazz, juggling, and crossword puzzles before the war. Now, he was fond of swearing, smoking, drinking, shouting and fighting – he was even more fond of kicking and punching things until they did what he wanted. Unsurprisingly, given his temperament, Douglas had yet to meet the man, woman, Pokemon, or recalcitrant machine that would not yield to his armored fist. He stomped his way through the mental health wing of the combat hospital set up on the northern outskirts of the city, generally being content to ignore, and be ignored, by the medical staff around him.

Leaving the field hospital behind, he climbed in to a waiting Stoutland-model hover-car gently floating some inches above the reinforced concrete foundation that made up Sector Fourteen – a new designation for this part of the city they'd taken to using as they recaptured bits and pieces of Castelia, block by block. "Driver. Destination is Forward Operations Base 'Victory'. I need my armor," he growled to the lieutenant colonel in the front of the vehicle, who by some saintly grace was completely nonplussed by his superior's obvious aura of impending and barely-restrained violence.

**Unova First Legio****n Forward Command, Castelia City Sector Nineteen, 12:09:35 UST**

"What do you mean, they've got leaders? They're motherfucking bugs, you cunt-addled son of a Swinub herder! They don't plan, they don't organize, bugs just fuck shit up! And we fuck them up! _**SO WHY AREN'T WE FUCKING THEM UP**__?_" Plasma Lord-General Douglas Anderson was seething with rage behind the Gothic face-mask of his massive Wonder Guard armor, but the men standing before him couldn't see it. They could, however, interpret his anger through the smashed command table that had been strewn with maps before his entry.

"Sir, in the last hour we have received one hundred and seventy-six confirmed reports of the Scolipede utilizing guerrilla-style tactics and strategic ambushes at nearly every major troop concentration across eight sectors. This completely flies against what we know of the bug's tactics. Something new is leading them, sir. It's the only explanation. Something is intelligent enough and has enough knowledge of human thought patterns to be capable of executing conventional military tactics using a force of otherwise uncontrollable Pokemon. We must fall back and secure our positions before we end up losing our hard-gained ground or, in a worst-case scenario, they overrun us and force us back into the desert. Estimated casualties for the former are somewhere around twenty-six percent of our current fighting forces, not including irregulars and mechanized divisions. They will suffer heavier casualties, somewhere around thirty to thirty-five percent. In the worst case scenario…" here the military aide paused, swallowing hard. He _really_ didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. But it was his job. Plus, they'd all cast lots beforehand, and he'd lost. The aide could practically hear his colleagues wondering how they'd divvy up his possessions after old Rip-and-Tear Anderson smashed his skull in for giving him a negative report.

"…Well? What are the projected casualties if we are overrun, Major?" Anderson's silken voice of deadly calm made the aide, one Major Ingram, jump. He'd accidentally lost himself in thought. His comrades were still watching with interest. A few had taken the initiative and begun to clean up the mess of maps on the floor and issue orders to corporal guarding the doors outside to have a new command table brought in immediately. Still others, relieved they were no longer the focus of Anderson's ire, went back to their work at the rows of computer consoles that relayed combat data, troop movements, status reports and even the amount of provisions, ammunition, and noncombatant personnel that the First Legion fielded at any one time.

"A-ah, y-yes, sir. P-projected casualties are estimated at over sixty percent for infantry, with another thirty percent being wounded and unable to resume combat operations. Of the wounded we already have, we estimate…a complete slaughter. We'd have time to evacuate ten, maybe fifteen percent of the hospital before they reached it. Our mechanized divisions would be down to five percent operational capacity, and our irregulars, oddly, would only suffer forty-percent losses. We suspect this is because they would fall back and retreat without orders, thereby weakening our lines and allowing the enemy to flank our main column." Ingram stuttered slightly but recovered smoothly, trying as hard as he could to mentally resign himself to the General's inevitable response.

"Is that so? Very well then, order all troops to fall back to their secured rally points and begin fortifying their positions. We'll use aerial drone patrols for reconnaissance instead of ground forces. Tell the third, eighth, and seventeenth armored divisions to move up and reinforce Sectors Twenty-Three, Ten, and Thirty-Five. Then send a missive to Command requesting that I be given temporary field command of the Crown of Castelia and all personnel therein. We're going to need all the help we can get and I don't want a pissing contest between us and the Skyguard losing the lives of our men needlessly." The older man was surprisingly calm as he gave his orders in clipped, imperial tones, causing everyone in the room to unconsciously stiffen their shoulders as they hurried faster than they normally would have to complete their allotted tasks. Anderson looked satisfied with the result and finally sat himself down in a massive chair specifically designed to hold, and withstand the immense weight of, his Wonder Guard armor. The fact that it looked very much like a throne was only a coincidence.

"What will you do while all this is going on, sir? Even with these preparations, the men will have a hard time holding the line if they think that they are all alone out there." His driver, the Lieutenant-Colonel, spoke up for the first time from his place on Anderson's right. He'd been shadowing his commander very much like a dutiful servant, remaining silent only until after the Plasma Knight had brought his rage under control.

"What am I going to do? Why, I'm going to start a war, Holstead. I'm going to start a _real_ war. Not this slugging through block by block war of attrition bullshit. What I have planned will reinvent the modern struggle. I will make this a most glorious campaign. I will start…a Crusade." The look on Anderson's face gave Lieutenant-Colonel Holstead pause. The man truly believed that he was going to redefine warfare. Holstead thought about that for a moment, then made his decision. He would join his commander on this holy quest. Unova would triumph.

Humanity would triumph.

"Oh, and before I forget," removing his helmet to speak more quietly, Anderson added in an oddly conversational aside to Holstead, "Send for a Truth Seeker and some boys from the Ministry of Safety and tell them to visit the mental health wing of the Sector Fourteen field hospital. There's a shrink there by the name of Dr. Sigmund Freid that they will be most interested in. Tell the Truth Seeker that the man is guilty of a Class Three Heresy, and let the Ministry fellows know that he also harbors unpatriotic thoughts regarding public service. They'll have a field day with him." The clerk-turned-paladin turned to face his aide-de-camp and gave him a rare feral grin, one of the few recorded times Douglas Anderson was ever seen to show any emotion other than rage or absolute calm in public. For some reason, this made Holstead shiver. Few people could do that to the otherwise unruffled officer. Which reminded him…

"Sir, I just remembered something that must be reported to you immediately," the assistant said calmly, staring evenly at his boss the way a mongoose might view a cobra, "the Church is sending us two squads of your fellow Plasma Knights, to help in ending the siege of the city."

"Is there any reason why I should not have been informed of this sooner? When will they get here?" the Plasma Lord-General growled, instantly back to his irritable self. This is why the chain of command was a bitch sometimes. Important information would get lost or forgotten or misplaced or redirected somewhere else or Goddesses knows what, and no one would know about it until the intelligence was useless and people ended up dead. Fucking bureaucratic incompetence, that's what it was. Anderson never ran his office so shoddily before the war.

"My lord, they will be here in less than an hour. You are to greet them formally at the helipad."

"Helipad? Since when were helicopters rated for heavy transport?"

"Sir, I merely said that they would be arriving at the helipad. I made no mention of their means of transportation. On that note, however, I will add that the vehicle they are being carried in is a brand-new model, straight from Nimbasa's factories. It's manufacturing designation is the HS581 'Swanna' Airborne Infantry Support Craft. Rather long-winded, but the missive I received from Opelucid said to just call it the Swanna. I suppose it's named so because of its shape or something."

Anderson looked thoughtful at this news. "A new type of vehicle, eh? And it's ours to keep, not the Skyguard's?"

Holstead nodded affirmative. "Aye. Apparently the Swanna class is intended to be piloted, fielded, and maintained by our ground forces. This is, so they say, to give us additional flexibility when we need to deploy infantry units in otherwise inhospitable terrain."

"Now I'm not so enthusiastic. It means we'll have to employ more personnel to be trained in how to keep the things airborne, not to mention fix them when they get banged up by enemy attacks. I'll inspect the thing for myself and see if it's worthy of the First Legion. But the name will have to go. I'm not having some sissy vehicle called a Swanna be the tool of a soldier's salvation, not when we've got Gigaliths and Stoutlands everywhere. We'll call it…the Landorus. Yes. I like that. 'Landorus' sounds broad, safe, and manly." Douglas mused aloud to Holstead as he raised his massive armor up off of his seat and re-equipped his helm. Motioning for the aide-de-camp to follow him – not that the excellent assistant needed such commands – Douglas strode through the base's narrow hallways and regretted the fact that Command hadn't given him some good combat engineers to level this whole sector and simply rebuild from scratch. This recaptured skyscraper was certainly large enough to house military operations, but it wasn't nearly as well-fortified as a conventional fortress.

Three hallways, two checkpoints, and a cargo elevator ride later, the two men were standing on a recently-constructed sky bridge connecting Sector Nineteen and Sector Eighteen, just across the bombed-out boulevard. Between the two massive buildings was a reinforced square roughly one hundred feet across and twice that distance wide – the helipad in question. Anderson couldn't fathom why the hell anyone would build an LZ for massively heavy aircraft carrying even heavier cargo smack dab in the middle of a bridge suspended some thirty meters or so above the ground. It was, Anderson reasoned, madness, and he told Holstead as much while they waited for their new craft carrying their trump cards to arrive.

"No, this is Castelia," the lieutenant colonel replied, which made the general look at him as though he'd just said something funny and the older man couldn't quite trust his hearing. "Heads up, sir. Here they come." Holstead remarked with a look so deadpan he might as well have been emulating Anderson, which would have amused and enraged the Plasma Lord-General to no end, had he not been correct in his statement.

[System Error: Data corruption detected in file

Attempting to fix the problem…

Data cannot be retrieved. Corruption irreversible.

Skipping to nearest good sector and resuming broadcast.]

_-ECCLESIASTICAL THOUGHT FOR THE DAY-_

_Where you Sense the Glimmer of Dissent, Purge it Without Doubt._

**Two Days Later, 5:35:08 UST**

Douglas Anderson woke up to the gentle noise of his alarm and stared at it with sleep-ridden eyes. It promptly silenced itself, and the psychic contemplated blowing it up with his mental powers, but the soldier in him knew it would be a waste of resources, and so the simple clock was spared the full force of his wrath. At least, for today. With groans and protests from his body, he slowly slid out of bed and began his morning regimen of exercises, designed to increase his stamina, muscle tone, and flexibility on the battlefield, among other places. 'Among other places' apparently included his bed, where a mound of sheets blurred the outline of a sleeping woman, still young, still very beautiful, and more than eager to share a bed with a holy Plasma Knight. Anderson looked back from his squat-thrusts and curls long enough to give the sleeping form a look of such sadness and pity that they could almost be considered the emotions of a caring, feeling individual - if this wasn't General Rip-and-Tear Anderson one was talking about.

"Talion, dear. I need you to wake up, miss lazybones. Morning prayers are in less than an hour's time. We will be missed if we are not seen attending." The old man spoke with a voice so soft, so tender – no. That would be impossible. Douglas Anderson did not love _people_. He did not show emotion for anyone, other than anger and hate. His only true love was battle, his bride was strategy, and his daughter was slaughter. This was just some infatuation. Nothing to be concerned about; every man had those urges now and then. He wouldn't be human if he didn't have that kind of drive. There was nothing else anyone in the First Legion needed to know about the diminutive Lord-General other than that.

The woman, Talion, stirred slightly and rolled around under the soft sheets of the General's bed to look at him with the same stormy gray eyes that had so enraptured him when he'd first saw her just two days ago.

"Yes, _sir_," she replied in a sultry, gently mocking tone, her lips moving lusciously behind a stray lock of red-gold hair. Talion _was_ extremely beautiful, this was true – but Anderson had never cared for aesthetics. No, the secret that had attracted the otherwise stoic warmonger to Talion lay behind her eyes. In that woman's mind was a burning fire – a brilliant, radiant beacon of intelligence, savagery, and psychic power, all fueled by a deep and abiding faith in her patrons – the Goddesses Reshiram and Zekrom themselves. Their symbol, the Mark of Heroes, was emblazoned in Talion's skin directly above her heart – it proved to all the faithful that this was a being that was incorruptible, was beyond sin, and was destined for true greatness. Only three others in recent history had worn this mark before: the late Plasma Highlord, Natural Harmonia Gropius, the current High Queen, Hilda the White, and the Champion of the League, Hilbert the Black. The Mark of Heroes conferred total and absolute obedience from any follower of Dualism, save another Hero. That meant that should she have wished it, the girl – whose full name was Talion Vaelheim - could have declared herself the leader of the Church of Dualism, Vizier of the High Queen, and Supreme General of the Unovan Guard, which included the First Legion. All at the tender age of sixteen.

But she would not – she was too pure and innocent for that. Anderson loved her power, the potential it held, but he also loved her humility and willingness to serve. _If only I had a hundred of her,_ he thought to himself in the musky pre-dawn light as he watched her move slowly out of the bed and practically glide her way to his bathroom to wash; _I could conquer the whole goddamn world_…

-End Chapter 3 Part 1-


	4. Anthology of Interest Anderson Part 2

**Aboard ****the **_**Crown of Castelia**_**, 12:01 Unovan Standard Time**

"Atten-hut! Officer on the bridge!" the duty officer's strident call echoed around the massive control center of the _Crown of Castelia_ far more than it should have, causing its commanding officer to wince slightly.  
>"At ease, everyone. Return to your duties." Skyla replied wearily, sinking into her command console with evident relief. From her position at the rear of the bridge, she could oversee all twenty of her command staff at once, and respond quickly to any changes in status. Next to her stood her Executive Officer and the massive airship's captain, a Plasma Knight by the name of Lieberman.<br>"New orders from the Capitol, Air Marshal. Lord-General Anderson has requested temporary command of the ship for his new offensive. Apparently he wishes to make a counter-strike into enemy territory again." The former Gym Leader, now commander of Unova's beleaguered air forces, sighed with resignation. She never asked for this. A phantom pain in her prosthetic leg caused her to clutch at her knee unconsciously for a moment before she quickly regained composure. Her XO gave her a quick look of concern before resuming his report. He was well aware of Skyla's injuries following the start of the war. "Did the Queen approve?" Skyla asked casually, though internally she seethed. Anderson was an egomaniac and a right bastard in her book; she didn't trust any of these 'reformed' members of what was once a subversive criminal organization. Even if Anderson had been a convert to the Church of Dualism, Skyla didn't approve of these rapid changes – but her opinion really didn't matter much any more. High Queen Hilda didn't have time to talk with her about her concerns regarding the near-zealous fervor the common people were growing for Trainers. Hilbert the Black was too busy securing what was left of the north-eastern front to have any concern for what happened to the west, either.  
>No, it was up to poor Skyla to keep things running now.<br>"In a way, your eminence. Dracolord Drayden signed off on it, saying that 'All of Humanity must be united to succeed'." Lieberman said evenly, perfectly aware of the Gym Leader's discontent.  
>She was starting to become a liability. The Sage Council would have to have a meeting soon about her.<br>"Very well then. I shall leave things in your capable hands then, Simon." Skyla announced with a sense of finality, rising up out of her chair with a sub-audible groan and limping to the flight deck where her personal jet was stationed, fully-fueled and ready to launch at a moment's notice.  
>"It is my honor to assume command..." Lieberman intoned, bowing at Skyla's retreating form with a mocking smile on his face. This was just what he wanted. Commanding the <em>Crown<em>, even if in name only, was a big deal. It could mean some serious influence and connections coming his way, potentially skyrocketing him up the hierarchy of the ever-competitive Orders Militant of the Church of Dualism.

**Castelia City Gym, 12:23 Unovan Standard Time**  
>Ranger Benedictine paced in his quarters, waiting for the signal from his agents placed among the heretics. His veins glowed with the luminescent frostblood that was the gift of his great Master, giving him a lich-like appearance; indeed, Benedictine <em>had<em> been dead until some months ago, initially slain by rogue Ice Pokemon, but resurrected and given new life under the one true Master.  
>"...Reports are coming in, brother..." a Scolipede emerged from the shadows of the gym's now-cavernous walls, its massive horn-antennae twitching with the speed at which signals were being sent and received among the collective hive.<br>"What do they say, Kralic?" Benedictine paused his endless walk to stare blindly at the bug-type before him. Eyesight hadn't been part of the deal when he was raised; other, newer Rangers had such gifts, but they were scouts and spies – the truly favored had no need of mundane sight. Not any longer.  
>"The humans are preparing to crush our offensive. Their leader, He-Who-Comes-In-Wrath, is planning something. They have brought in more of their demon-shells, the Plasma Knights. Many of my brood-mates will die if we strike them now."<br>"Your brood should have been prepared for those losses when you severed ties with the Lilligant in the forest!" the Ranger snapped back at the Pokemon cruelly, causing the massive bug to recoil from the disdain obvious in Benedictine's voice.  
>"They betrayed us. We did not know they would remain neutral. It was your brood who said they would reclaim our nesting grounds once we did as you asked. We have held up our side of the bargain. When will you do the same?!" the Scolipede chattered back, making a token lunge at the smaller human. Benedictine dodged, predictably, with unnatural speed for a man whose body looked like it was seeing seventy.<br>"The Master does not break oaths, Kralic. We will give you your lands as soon as the heretics have been dealt with." The bug scoffed at this remark, as well as a massive insect can be said to scoff.  
>Muttering curses about humans and their stupid wars amongst themselves, Kralic spindled away on his many jointed legs, returning to the front lines where his broodlings were fighting off the human incursions. Too many hives had been crushed since the humans came with their shining metal death-machines and their sorcerer-psychics. The bugs were on the verge of starvation, and their new 'generals' did nothing but send them into the grinder to die. Kralic knew the thoughts of the Brood-link, and they were displeased with the lack of results. They were promised food, and their breeding grounds, and more territory to expand. They were given clarity of mind and purposeful forethought. But they were not given trust. And Kralic was the most paranoid of the Hive Scolis, as they called themselves.<p>

=][=

"Forward, brothers and sisters of Unova! Foward, sons and daughters of Castelia!" a priest of Zekrom urged on his squad of Unovan Guard embedded on the front lines of the push into Castelia's southern blocks. A pair of Gigalith tanks, massive affairs that were as big as the buildings they were shelling, moved along slowly behind the infantry squads, with smaller Stoutland tank-hunters roaming about like ants surrounding their queen. The bugs rushed the tanks, wave after wave, only to be shredded into a fine mist before they could get in range, falling victim to the superheavy tanks' 160mm twin cannons. The ground squads moved cautiously – after all, they didn't want to wander into the tank's effective minimum range, IFF or not. The priest seemed disappointed in the soldiers' lack of zeal, continuing to exhort them to greater feats of daring and suicidal stupidity. Most of the men tuned him out by now; they were loyal, but they weren't mindless drones.  
>"Has your courage deserted you, men and women of the Goddesses? Does the sight of the enemy unmake you?! There are no cowards in this Crusade! Lord-General Anderson does not per-" his tirade was cut short by a sniper round splattering his skull onto the ground from a far-off tower to the south, which was quickly turned upon by the Gigaliths and leveled completely into rubble by their railguns.<br>"Thank the enemy for that. I thought he'd never shut up." Corporal Jones commented dryly as the squad suddenly quickened their pace, as if to spite the memory of the blowhard clergyman.  
>"Shouldn't we be worried? I mean, it <em>was<em> a sniper that did him in. You know, before the Gigas smeared him." another soldier remarked, looking up at the gaping wounds made in the massive skyscrapers surrounding them with unease.  
>"Nah, it's not a big deal. It just means Intel was right and there are human traitors helping them. We find em, we grease some and capture the leader, and we all get to be big heroes." the Corporal replied evenly, calming his squadmates for now.<br>"Hey Jones. Squawk from the tanks. They said they're runnin' low on ammo and are heading back to Checkpoint Delta for resupply. They want to know if we want to go back with em as escort, seeing as how Zeke just bought it." the comms trooper called out, deferring to the noncom's seniority.  
>Again, Jones shrugged. "We'll be fine. We're running hot on ammo and the bugs have cleared out of the sector for now. They won't be back for another few hours once they realize the Gigas are gone, and that gives us plenty of time to set up relay beacons and forward listening posts."<br>The rest of the squad murmured their assent to this plan, and they watched as the armored vehicles went about-face and rolled away, the tank-hunter escorts going with them. After all, a single infantry was nothing compared to a nearly-sacred Gigalith. The loss of the former was inevitable – the loss of the latter, a tragedy.  
>"...So. Alone at last, boys and girls." Jones said in a mock-creepy fashion, which elicited some few nervous chuckles from some. Others just checked their safeties and scanned the peripherals for enemy activity.<p>

(Jones' squad never made it back to Checkpoint Delta. A search party was sent out, and the remains of six troopers were found two days later in a sector that lay on the other end of the city far outside the recommended patrol routes, mutilated in some sort of ritual sacrifice that was deemed heretical by the Church immediately upon discovery. Of the seven others in the squad, nothing is known. They went down as Missing, Presumed Deceased.)

=][=  
><strong>An Epilogue from Archivist Novare:<strong>

I have deigned not to bother with a preamble this time, namely because I know your time is valuable, [NAME REDACTED UNDER NATIONAL SECRETS ACT]. Your appointment to the Executive Committee was certainly a surprise to all of us, especially when you immediately requested more funds for the National Museum. I think you should try and restrain your enthusiasm for our little excursions into the past, sir. You are still attracting far too much attention – National Secrets Act or no.

Hopefully our next session will be soon; after all this time, my colleagues and I were starting to think you'd forgotten about us and the Project.

Oh yes, I almost forgot: the Project. Yes, you'll be happy to know it is coming along ahead of schedule. We've had some personnel go missing, but that is just how these things work. We'll find the bodies eventually.

_=][= ECCLESIASTICAL THOUGHT FOR THE DAY =][= _

_ Hate the Traitor, Revile the Heretic_


	5. And Then There Was Plot

**Chapter V: Here There Be Plot**

**Unknown Location, Unknown Time**

The man whose name was censored sighed and stretched in his overstuffed executive chair, tossing aside a tablet device that depicted a seemingly endless scroll of words. Reading these chronicles of the past was certainly a time-consuming endeavor, though the man whose name was censored did not mind the intellectual effort. The tablet clattered onto his office desk, a massive wood and stone _thing_ that dominated his otherwise massively empty chambers, coming to rest askew on top of a pile of similar devices, all holding different records sent by the eager-to-please Novare. The man made several wriggling gestures, evidently trying to find a comfortable spot in his chair.

The man's appearance was relatively nondescript: close-cropped hair, black mostly, but there were visible signs of gray at the temples; a thin, lanky frame, covered by skin bleached pale from long exposure to LED screens; tired-looking eyes, the color of dirty bathwater. All in all, the man seemed like one who had aged before his time. His exact age wasn't important - for courtesy's sake, he said he was somewhere in his twenties, which many thought was a blatant lie, but then again fewer than one hundred people had actually seen him face-to-face. The man frowned at the pile of tablets and deliberately turned away from them. A large viewing screen made its home on the wall nearest him, and the man amused himself for a time by turning it on and browsing the channels, jumping from historical narratives to current events to children's programming (and all the propaganda that was subtly inserted into it), seeming equally disinterested in all of them.  
>"Novare...Just what is it you want me to learn?" the man asked his surroundings, knowing full well not to expect an answer.<p>

"Why don't you just ask her?" a voice replied back evenly, causing the man to jump nearly three feet up before swerving his chair towards the source, his terminal's monitor. A woman's face was plastered there, giving the man a shit-eating grin and loving his reaction.  
>"...Oh god, it's just you. For your information, Novare is an elderly <em>man.<em> We've recently begun correspondence. Now what the hell do you want, Underwood? How the hell did you get this access code?" The man with an unspoken name gave a look of supreme displeasure at the woman, who simply grinned back cheekily.  
>"Oh, what, I can't call and congratulate our newest Executive Councilman on his appointment? I'm hurt, Shai-Llo. I thought we were friends." Underwood gave a faux-pout that wouldn't fool a three-year-old, much to the man's irritation.<br>"The man you call Shai-Llo has been dead for over twelve years, Underwood. No one is permitted to speak that name any longer, by law. My name is Redacted, now."  
>"Shitty name." Underwood grumbled, temporarily rebuffed.<br>"Yes, I know it's a terrible name. But _I _am a terrible person. Therefore the name fits me perfectly." the man who called himself Redacted gave a rare grin, which Underwood quickly caught and returned.  
>"I'm glad we got all the small talk out of the way, Shai-Llo. Because there was a legitimately serious reason why I had the telecommunications networks commandeered to allow us a secure direct line."<br>Redacted looked mildly curious, but again frowned at the use of the name. "What's up?"

"Military armaments have gone missing. Divergence-era armaments. That war created some of the most devastating weapons this planet's ever seen, Shai-Llo. And somebody has stolen a brigade's worth of hardware from our storage facilities." Redacted looked flabbergasted. Who the hell would have the balls to manage such a feat?

"Which brigade was it?" Redacted asked urgently.

"The Castelian Death Brigade, of all things." Underwood responded darkly.

Redacted was silent for a few moments while he mentally recalled the name and its role during the war. His pupils went wide as he made the connection, and his skin seemed to get even paler, if that was possible. "…Shit," he breathed.

As if in response to his expression, Underwood continued. "It gets worse. They nabbed Wonder Guard powersuits, Lairon exo-armor, and a pair of Gigaliths. We don't even know how they managed that last one. We should have seen a great bloody tank being stolen, much less two. But all our leads have turned up dead. Literally. All the guards posted at the facility the eve of the theft have either committed suicide or simply turned up with their throats cut. This is quickly becoming an issue of national security."  
>"That...sounds like very bad news, Tabitha." Redacted said after a very long pause, his eyes thoughtful, "But...why exactly are you contacting me about this? A theft of this magnitude is better left for the security services, don't you think?"<br>"I called you because you're the only one with the resources to help us. And the one clue we have, we can't dig up any info on, because the National Archives documents that go anywhere near this thing are all sealed with your authorization code. Nobody can crack it."  
>Redacted gave a blank stare. "What the hell are you talking about? I never sealed any documents..." Then a look of sudden understanding hit him like a thunderstorm on a sunny day. "Novare...that son of a bitch! What kind of clue was it?!" Redacted was starting to look excited now, leaning forward in his chair to give his full attention to Underwood.<br>Tabitha looked down, presumably consulting her case file. "A drawing of a crude-looking sword done in blood. We're analyzing it, but it's a mess. Human and Pokemon DNA signatures have been identified, and it's going to take days, maybe weeks, before we can sort it all out. Next to it the word 'Oathbreakers' was written, in the same mixture."  
>"Oathbreakers...where have I heard that before..." Redacted muttered, eyes flitting about the room as if trying to find some sort of fairy of fridge brilliance.<br>As his gaze alighted on the stack of tablets, it hit him.  
>"Of course! It's here! Novare sent me terabytes of data about the Divergence. I'm sure I saw a mention of a sword called Oathbreaker in there somewhere! Give me a few days to find it, Tabitha, and I'll call you as soon as I do." Redacted lunged across his desk and began to feverishly grab at his tablets, scrolling rapidly down one after another.<br>"That's fine and all, but we don't have days, Shai-Llo. We need to find these guys immed-" Redacted cut her off with a push of a button on his console and turned off his call receiver with a single smooth motion, already lost in the minutiae of data. Novare's prophetic words some time ago had been right, after all. The legacy of the past was stirring once again.

=][=

**Nimbasa City: April 17, YDR 3, 3:54 PM**

Menkov groaned and shifted feebly in his sickbed. He was stuck in the military ward of the Nimbasa General Hospital for the third time since returning to civilization last year. After his debriefing, the brass hadn't wasted any time in sending him back out into even more dangerous missions, only this time they didn't bother giving him a squad to help him accomplish them. They claimed it was because he had a new partner and could therefore accomplish things that only a two-person team could do. He knew it was because they didn't trust his leadership skills. Not after the Twist Mountain incident. They thought he, the sole survivor, was a traitor. Of course, they didn't have any proof, and they couldn't just black-bag the man who had brought a Psychic Trainer into the fold. Indeed, it was because of that Trainer that he was even still in the military. Coincidentally, it was also that Trainer's fault that he was in the hospital. Again.

"Sup old man. How's the rib coming along?" Cygnus announced in a too-loud voice as she entered his room, causing Menkov to wince and glare at her as his ribs once again reminded him of their injured status.

"You know, I'd be a lot better off if you wouldn't insist on poking everything with a psychic probe. That's like cooking with nitroglycerin. It's stupid and inevitably just blows up in your face." Menkov responded irritably, but he allowed her to sit down on his bed with an air of long-suffering grace.

"How was I to know Trubbish swarms react badly to psychic abilities?" Cygnus replied with an air of faux-innocence that wouldn't fool a child. Her smile of innocence quickly spread into a grin of malicious glee as Menkov made strangling pantomimes and held back a half-dozen swear words.

"Because," he said after a time (which involved a nurse coming in and giving him some medicine for his extremely high blood pressure, a condition that only seemed to have developed after meeting Cygnus), "It was in the bloody 'Dex entry under 'Tactical Data'. You should have known better." The Psychic gave only a guilty look in return. "You…didn't read the 'Dex entry, did you? You didn't even read the mission briefing. Girl, I swear to the Goddesses, I am going to kill you one of these days." Another blood-pressure incident and attempted manslaughter charge occurred shortly afterwards, which this time required several orderlies and a powerful dose of tranquilizers.

Cygnus wisely fled for a time to allow her partner to 'cool down', as it were. However, in the duration between her visits, a different sort of guest entirely paid the wounded officer a visit.

"Lieutenant Sasha Menkov, right?" Douglas Anderson read off the name from the panel at the foot of the man's bed, seeming utterly disinterested in the entire affair. "Son, I want you and your partner to assist me in the tracking, capture, and return of a traitor. I hear you're adept in hand-to-hand combat and Psylink systems technology – that's good. You're gonna need both of them." Menkov merely stared in shock at the diminutive man encased in the goliath-sized armor. What the hell was a Plasma Lord-General of the First Legion doing in his hospital room?!

"I…what?" Menkov managed to croak. Anderson nodded, seemingly in understanding, though most likely he didn't know and didn't care what sort of mental loop-de-loops he was putting this man through. "This mission is, of course, of the highest secrecy and for political and religious reasons has been classified as a 'black' op. You will be given the latest weapons and armor, rapid deployment, and if need be, aerial support. The traitor is wanted for the betrayal and murder of over a dozen holy Plasma Knights, and misappropriation of military hardware during her escape. She carries with her a sword called Oathbreaker. Don't let her use it. The thing's cursed or something – we're not sure how. Just knock her out and drag her back to Castelia before the third of next month. I want her hanged at the ceremony officially celebrating the capture of the city."

"Hanged, sir?" Menkov's voice found a little more of its natural timbre at the mention of an execution.

"Damn right. I said hanged. It's an old-fashioned style of execution that makes a hell of a statement to anyone else who'd consider turning against us." Though Douglas' words made sense in that he was the sort of hardline bastard who would use primitive methods of death deliberately as an anachronism in the hypermodern era, his facial expression was ill-pleased by the thought of the act itself.

Menkov did a few quick mental calculations and found a result he didn't like.  
>"Sir, with all due respect... Why the hell would you send a two-man hit team to acquire a target who you've just said has killed over a dozen of the finest warriors humanity has to offer the Goddesses, and then evaded the entirety of the First Legion to escape into the wastes in a military vehicle? Is this some sort of suicide mission, sir? Are we expected to fail?"<p>

Douglas's face became very still at this. For what seemed like an eternity he stared in absolute silence at Menkov, seeming to reach deep into his soul. Menkov was smart enough to realize the tingling sensation in the base of his skull was not in fact nerves, but the telltale fingerprint of a mental probe. The general was a Psychic! Instinctively Menkov put up barriers around his mind, visualizing only gigantic walls and women with large breasts and massive battle-tanks rampaging across a pastoral countryside, and other assorted things that men find bloody impressive, in the hopes of distracting the Plasma Lord while he silently screamed for Cygnus to assist him. Almost immediately the (comparatively) bubbly personality of the Psychic responded with evident glee to his mental summons and merged her own considerable psyche with the lieutenant's to fight off the General's increasingly aggressive probes.

Douglas grunted softly and his eyes narrowed as he felt the almost immediate resistance of Menkov's mind to his interrogation. He was at once irritated - not unusual, given his temperament - and satisfied by the officer's reaction of Douglas's otherwise hidden abilities. "Not bad, lieutenant. Not bad. Your file lists your ESP rating as naught-point-nine. You'd have to be at least that to use the Psylink. Your strategy for mental combat is amusing son, but we both know you don't have the power to resist a proper probe for long." He grinned and spat coarsely on the ground, triggering a summons of a small sanitation robot to sterilize the now-soiled area. "Your partner is helping you, isn't she? Damn clever of you, boy. Now cease your resistance and let me in. That's a direct fucking order from Plasma Lord-General Douglas Seamus Anderson, commander of the Unovan Guard First Legion, Anointed Justiciar of the Faith and Defender of the Black and White, and you if knew how much I hate using my full name and title, you'd do as you're told right this fucking second before my armored fist beats you back into a damned coma and I have you dishonorably discharged from the military for gross insubordination, in that order."

Faced with such overwhelming logic and force, Menkov had no choice but to submit to his superior officer, with Cygnus - already on her way to Sasha's side from elsewhere in the hospital – hiding her soul's unique signature in the depths of her partner's mind, so she could observe Anderson's rooting about inside Sasha's head. As Menkov prepared himself for what would certainly be an extremely unpleasant experience, a sudden point of brilliance burst into existence. Taking a few precious seconds of delay to share the idea with Cygnus - whose psychic laughter was almost audible in its intensity - the soldier played his last trump card and hoped to all gods known and unknown that it worked.

"Sir, I have nothing to hide, but I must issue a formal complaint to you about your misuse of Esper abilities against another human, a breach of the Magnolia Protocol's First Clause regarding the use of telepsychic powers. I am also going to declare on record that this search is done against my will, without my full consent or cooperation, and you are in violation of the Uniform Military Code Section Six, Subsection Four-Four-Two-point-Five-dash-E, regarding the treatment of subordinates by superior officers, and in cases of Esper abuse, the minimum penalty for said violation is no less than twenty lashes, a permanent removal of higher mental function, and two years in a psychically shielded isolation cell at the Dragonspiral Tower itself. Sir." Anderson blinked in surprise at Menkov's sudden outburst, but regained his stolid composure swiftly.

"Very well then Lieutenant, since you're being so by-the-book, I will stand as your witness to the aforementioned breaches of the law. Your objection is noted and I will log it with both my general staff and the Truth Seekers. But you needn't be so paranoid; I merely wanted to check and see if you had ever met the target before." This time it was Menkov's turn to blink in surprise.

"How would I know if I'd met the target, sir, if you have yet to tell me who it is I'm looking for?"

Anderson nodded. "Fair enough. The target is a woman in her late teens, reddish-gold hair and grey eyes, fair of features and complexion. Her name is Talion Vaelheim, and she was a Plasma Knight under my command before she betrayed us all. Her ESP rating is – and I'm not shitting you here – a _t__hree-point-three_."

Menkov visibly paled and his heart rate and blood pressure went into the danger zone again, forcing the duty nurses for the third time to save the ailing man's life. During the commotion, Cygnus finally arrived and took up a defensive position next to her partner, glaring daggers at the massive suit of powered armor.

"As I was saying," Anderson began calmly once Menkov had been properly stabilized and the nurses had finished their angry tirade at the general about the treatment of convalescents, "Vaelheim is a three-point-three on the ESP scale. And as you know, it's a logarithmic scale and every decimal point is a power of ten. That means that, unless she has a twin sister on the other side of the world we don't know about, Talion Vaelheim is the most powerful human psychic ever recorded. I believe the previous record was set at a dead three, by the Continent's Saffron City Gym Leader, Sabrina. The only reason we're all not gibbering morons, vapid mind-controlled zombie slaves, or missing our craniums due to mind bullets is that her power is focused in a very unusual and narrow spectrum of abilities – her training as a Plasma Knight helped to control and restrain her latent powers somewhat, and I suspect the Oathbreaker is actively weakening her as well. If you'd ever met her before, there is a chance – however slight – that she could have implanted a hypnotic suggestion that would prevent you from physically causing her harm, or even compelling you to obey her commands. Hence my mental probe. This mission requires you to be capable of resisting mental intrusion, should she attempt it. That is part of the reason I chose your team, Lieutenant. Together you two have a combined rating of three-point-four. With your wider range of powers and the use of a priority-alpha connection to the Psylink, the both of you should be more than enough to match her in her current state."

It took Menkov some time to come to grips with what he was being asked to do. Cygnus, being Cygnus, naturally understood it immediately, and was already seething with jealousy at Talion's higher Esper rating. (Cygnus herself had been tested some months ago, shortly after her rescue of Lieutenant Menkov, and the Unovan government had been overjoyed to learn that she rated a two-point-five, the highest of any Trainer still alive. There were rumors, of course, that Elite Four Caitlin was a two-point-seven, but Cygnus chose to ignore those rumors and preen her ego instead.)

"How did she get so powerful? Surely no human mind could contain that much energy without adverse consequences." This time it was Cygnus who spoke, her voice layered with suspicion and apprehension.

Anderson merely grunted. "Top secret. Even I wasn't told, so don't try digging in my brain for the truth to save us both some time. Either way, it's need-to-know, and none of us need to know. Got it?"

"When, uh… When do we leave? Do you have any information on her current location?" Sasha inquired in a reluctant tone. He even made a feeble gesture and winced for show, just to drive home how difficult the mission would be, given his current state of affairs.

"You've got two weeks. The doctors have been made aware of your redeployment to the field and will be giving you the latest in rapid recovery medicine to get you out of here by the end of tomorrow. The full briefing will be at one thousand hours sharp on Thursday at Nimbasa General Staff HQ. A car will by to pick you and your partner up from your lodgings at oh-nine-thirty. Get your shit in order, boys and girls. We're going on a motherfucking witch-hunt." With that epithet done, General Anderson turned and clomped his way heavily out of the room, his body language – what little could be read from between the massive joints and plates of his powered armor – brooking no further conversation. He'd talked up a storm today, and would most likely spend the rest of the week giving orders in nothing but shorthand, swears, and nonverbal grunts and gestures to compensate.

**=][=**

**Unknown Location, Unknown Time **

The man who called himself Redacted swore softly to himself as he finished reading Novare's document. Now he knew why the old man had been so reluctant to tell him about the other possible DNA match. It was entirely possible that his ancestor had been a traitor of the highest order. And of course, with the universe being as fond of cruel ironies as it was, the other DNA match was tasked with her destruction.

"Novare, you sick bastard. What kind of bullshit is this?" his eyes jumped back and forth around the documents, looking for something, anything, that definitively would tell him who his ancestor really was. Novare had been clever – too clever by half, some would muse – by playing things close to the chest. Redacted was a Psychic, of course – anyone who knew him could tell you that instantly – and Novare certainly had the security clearances to look into Redacted's top secret medical records and see that the man whose name was censored had an ESP rating of two-point-nine-five. With humanity in this era rapidly gaining psychic abilities of varying strengths and types, only hereditary transmission was considered a reliable means by which to propagate consistently powerful strains of psychic potential. Novare knew this, and he knew Redacted knew it as well.

"You have some explaining to do, old man… Just what the hell are you really up to in those Archives…?" The man once named Shai-Llo whispered into the air around him as his mind raced around itself, seeking connections where there were none – or conspiracy where there was…

[END CHAPTER 5]


	6. This Isn't A Pun, I Swear

**CHAPTER VI: HEATMOR CHICKEN**

**Dragonspiral Tower, 7:30 UST, June 8 YDR 3**  
>"Fire," the call rang out across the courtyard as the execution team readied its weapons and unleashed its barrage, shredding the blindfolded men and women tied to stakes at the other end of the range. This was the third day in a row that these purges had been conducted on a round-the-clock basis, eliminating what the Church higher-ups called a 'heretic faction of traitors' from the holy cloisters. Many of the firing squad spat at the ground before the bodies as they were removed to make way for the next batch.<br>"May Reshiram burn them for all eternity," the duty priest muttered as the bodies were piled onto carts and wheeled away.  
>"Dirty fucking Kyurem worshipers. Who the hell decides it's a good idea to throw their lot in with a fucking avatar of the endless void?" one of the witnesses remarked as they too sought to leave, seeking refreshments in between the regular killings.<br>"We've taken heavy losses in the northern campaigns. This sort of cult behavior is completely understandable," replied another onlooker sporting an impressive mustache and monocle. "I heard about that," the first speaker replied, taking an offered cup from the serving robot and drinking deeply of the rich, dark-red wine within, "How bad is it over there?"  
>The monocled man grunted and shook his head. "Catastrophic is the only word I can use to describe it. Three thousand men dead in the first wave, another five the second. At this rate we'll lose Opelucid, and with it any chance of survival, much less victory."<br>The second speaker grew pale at this, as did those surrounding them who had overheard. News of the war in Dragonspiral was a form of currency – free information was like abandoned gold bricks just lying around. "How'd...how'd you learn about this?" a third speaker, a middle-aged woman with a prosthetic arm and a cybernetic eye spoke up, looking worried even through all the makeup and scar tissue that covered her face.  
>"I have...<em>had<em>, I should say – friends among the Northern Legions. With the losses we've taken in the push for Giant Chasm, defending the remnants of the Pokemon League, and the quagmire that is now Castelia – sorry, we're calling it Andersonville now, aren't we? - our resources are stretched thin, even with all the new advances in military science we've put out over the past eighteen months." Monocle shook his head again.  
>"What does the High Queen have to say?" the first speaker asked, taking another glass of wine and downing it like it was cheap swill.<br>"You know her. Ever since Lord N's death, Touko – sorry, Hilda the White, now – has eschewed public relations. She's always in the war room with her generals or lending her face to a new propaganda campaign from Section Three. Why we ever let a girl like her become a monarch still escapes me."  
>"Still your tongue, friend! You speak too much! She was the Hero of Truth, is why! Nobody else could stem the tide of blood after that first week. We'd all be dead if it wasn't for her." the woman scolded, looking positively outraged at such flippant speech.<br>"That wasn't her. It was the Goddesses giving Humanity the tools we needed to fight back!" the first speaker added. The Monocle rolled his visible eye.  
>"Hardly. The Human Ascension, as the Church calls it, was probably initiated by some force on the Continent. That's what our intelligence has suggested for ages now. The dogma of the Church is only for the masses and the soldiers – you'd best remember that if you want to go anywhere worthwhile in our new society." This silenced the first speaker for a while, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.<p>

_** Emergency Alert: enemy action detected within the sphere of defense. Repeat: enemy action detected within the sphere of defense. Non-combatants are to report to designated shelters and await further instructions. All Trainers and Clerics of the Third Caste or higher are ordered to general quarters to await deployment. Do not panic. The Skyguard is en-route and will defend us. Pray to the Goddesses, and victory shall surely follow. **_

Everyone, soldier, priest, and onlooker alike turned their heads to look to the skies. An orderly panic began to set in as human and Pokemon activity in and around the Tower rapidly increased in response to the new threat. False walls placed throughout the complex moved by unseen devices and fell away to reveal modified Golurks bristling with armor plating and advanced weaponry, who stepped forward heavily out of their alcoves and launched themselves soundlessly into the air. Those who had been chatting during the executions found themselves a now-empty alcove and, when someone found the reassuring icon of a glowing emergency switch, re-activated the false wall, triggering the funicular device which supported the floor to initiate its swift descent beneath ground level into massive underground atriums, which themselves gave way to nearly-inpenetrable armored panic rooms. There were dozens of such bunkers located all over the complex, arranged in such a way that someone would never be more than three minutes away from an emergency access point. It was designed with the intention of being one of the most secure structures in Unova, if not the world.

Though they could not see it (there were no televisions broadcasting what was going on outside into the panic rooms, apparently so as not to reveal military secrets or somesuch), the sky began to light up with tracer rounds and antiaircraft fire as Golurks unleashed their special brand of hell upon the invaders, a flight of Druddigon who roared challenges as they were blasted away by dozens of beams of ice, freezing them solid before being shattered utterly into infinitesimal shards by armored Pokemon fists.

Within minutes of the alarm sounding, the Druddigon had been routed and well over 60% of them had been obliterated completely, with another 23% wounded from white-hot phosphorus and toxic radioactive thorium rounds. A few Golurk had been disabled and torn apart by Druddigons swarming them three or four at a time, but Golettes were already scurrying around on the ground and recover the parts, eager to repair their larger brethren. The remaining Druddigon flew away as best they could, the ugly beasts firing sporadic potshots at the guarding Golurk, who merely raised Barriers and calmly hovered around the tower's perimeter until the creatures were gone from their radar. Business as usual resumed at Dragonspiral, as people left the safety of the panic rooms and now-docile Pokemon returned once more to their alcoves, seemingly content with their lot. A few chatted about how oddly frequent the aerial incursions had become, and what the Skyguard was going to do about it...

=][=

**Somewhere Beneath Opelucid City, June 8 YDR 3, Unknown Time**

Elesa's mind wandered through the Empty Place. How long had it been since the Accident? Months? Years? Time was a cruel joke here – there was no stable progression of linear thought. A Metagross or a Beheeyem came by sometimes to check up on her, but they would refuse to interface with her and let her know of the world outside the Empty Place.

It's not like she had nothing to do. The Great Machine needed to be maintained, after all. Production quotas had to be met. Orders for repair and construction had to be issued and approved. Food supplies had to be tallied and compared with population and workplace output to prevent hoarding or theft. Elesea was filled with a terrible, irresitable purpose should could no more ignore than the fashion world could have ignored her in the Before Time.  
>A sudden light permeated through the fractal waves of code that made up the primitive virtual environment she had been stuck in for far too long. Though she no longer had any sense of direction, or any senses at all really, she nevertheless felt like she was being poured out of her floating environ into something...<em>else.<em>  
>There was blackness. Truthfully this was inaccurate, as the total absence of anything a human mind could correlate in their frame of reference was only analogous to this immense void. Just as suddenly as Elesa was subjected to this nightmarish depravation, she became – <strong>ON<strong>.  
><em>"Etiam in morte adhuc mihi servite,"<em> the golem's sepulchral yet somehow oddly feminine voice spoke with hesitation and awe from its seated position deep within the cavernous depths of Shaft 9, "Even in death I still serve." Colress was pleased with his experiment's apparent success. The artificial body opened its large, iridescent sapphire eyes and gazed balefully at the man standing before it.  
>"Colress. How long has it -"<br>"Been? Seven months, two weeks, three days, seventeen hours and forty-three minutes since your internment. Welcome back, ELESA." the scientist interrupted the machine's query cheerfully, ignoring the angry stare of the android currently hooked up to dozens of massive wires and cables. "You are truly my greatest creation."  
>Elesa frowned, an action which caused her a brief moment of surprise at actually being able to do such a thing and be aware of it. It really had been too long, separated from the physical world the way she was.<br>"Creation? You have deceived me, then. You promised it would be no more than a few days, weeks at most, and then you would have a cloned body ready for me to imprint myself upon. Yet I do not feel the comfort of my own flesh and blood. I cannot feel my heartbeat nor have I yet felt the need to draw breath. My life is not some grand experiment for you to toy with, bastard." The cold, synthesized voice that emanated from the Gym Leader rang with hidden frustration.  
>The scientist merely shrugged by way of response. "Well, that was the initial plan, yes. But then we had a breakthrough in evolutionary science around the two week mark, and we scrapped the idea of a simple clone. Why run the risk of mortality once more, ELESA? You are so much more, now. Within your chest lies a micro-fusion reactor capable of producing several Terajoules of stable, clean energy for the next ten thousand years, and that's a conservative estimate. Your cranial cavity houses the most advanced miniaturized quantum computer ever crafted by the hands of man. Your flesh is made of psychoreactive Reuniclus cells, and will never age nor blemish. Your skeletal frame is composed of woven titanium and carbon nanotubes and is modular for easy repair and adjustment. Your bloodstream is made of high-temperature superconductors and self-updating slave nanomachines dwell throughout your structure, enabling you wireless control over nearly any electronic device. Artificial organs have been grown and placed inside your torso to allow you the ability to generate and store electromagnetic energy. Truly, you are more demigod than human now." Colress waxed more and more energetically as he began to twirl around the lab in a dance with his own ego, his blue hair strand twitching furiously in concert.<br>"Vocal analysis indicates your emphasis on my name is outside of normal patterns by 27%. Explain." Elesa replied calmly, biding her time as her body began to twitch and move randomly while somatic pathways were explored and tested by her mind's lower functions.  
>"Oh, we turned your name into an acronym. Terribly popular nowadays with the top brass, you know. You're now the Evolutionary Life-emulating Energy-based Simulacrum Android, ELESA. It was rather difficult trying to find words to make an acronym out of your name that also made sense. Still not quite happy with the results, but that's what I get for entrusting the task to grad students." Colress commented, still spinning madly with glee at his scientific masterpiece.<p>

Elesa took all of this in rather stoically, or at least as best as one could take such soul-shattering revelations when your body still hadn't figured out how to replicate emotional distress quite yet. Her mind held vast power at its virtual fingertips – she could immediately discern that. But she no longer felt _human._ "Happy with the results?" the android began dangerously, her limbs finally starting to move in concerted effort as her intelligence asserted control over its new form. "I have become a monstrosity bereft of all traces of my humanity, and your only concern is results?! I should tear you apart where you stand, you heartless son of a bitch," the Gym Leader's voice now did a better job of conveying menace as it updated itself to Elesa's preferred tonal range. With a series of powerful, jerky movements, the artificial body housing the former model's mind tore free from its constraints and umbilical cables with violent disregard, causing Colress to pause from his self-aggrandizement long enough to gaze at the newborn android with a mild hint of concern.  
>"Monstrosity?" the man murmured softly, staring at Elesa's unclad form covered in glistening oils and liquid semiconductors as she marched slowly but purposefully towards him, a clear glint of murder in her eyes. "My dear ELESA, you are the most beautiful creature in all of creation. In my eyes there is none so glorious, so perfect in every way, as you are to me right now."<br>A pale, unblemished arm reached out and clumsily grabbed hold of a metal pipe, tearing it free of its housing and causing a cloud of steam to billow out for a few moments, obscuring Colress' view of the approaching homicidal robot until the automatic safety measures activated and shut off that particular pipe's flow with a sudden and efficient stop.  
>"…Is that true?" a small voice called out in the ensuing silence. Colress nodded somberly by way of reply. "I don't know if you're stalling for time until some kind of help arrives, or you're just genuinely insane. How can I be beautiful when I am no longer human?" this time the voice sounded pleading, full of sorrow and horror.<br>"Would you kindly put down that bit of metal and come over here? When you see yourself as I do, you'll understand." Picking up a medium-sized sheet of polished silver from a nearby table, the man approached his ultimate creation slowly, pretending not to notice the heavy steel pipe clatter to the floor. He hadn't thought the possibility of ELESA becoming overtly violent against other humans had been a significant enough risk to warrant hidden failsafe commands, but his design team had been substantially more cautious than he. Briefly Colress regretted their loss in the terrible accident he had arranged only a few days ago, to prevent anyone else from knowing the full capabilities of what he believed to be the greatest achievement in the history of humankind.  
>"This is me?" Elesa remarked slowly, a hand traveling upwards to caress her face and surprising herself at the sensation of touching her new skin. "I can actually feel it. How'd you manage that?"<br>"Cloned nervous system from a Trainer. We edited out the ability to feel pain, but you'll be able to manipulate other, more pleasurable sensations quite well." A hint of amusement in the Scientist's tone was not lost on the Gym Leader, who once again looked at him with narrowing eyes. Her crystalline eyes focused in on Colress's facial expression, analyzing torrents of data to discern his true intent.  
>"You are a perverted lech, aren't you?" Elesa asked flatly. Her creator merely shrugged and flashed her a smile, "Certainly, you'd have to be, given that not only have you installed a positive-feedback response system, but I can't help but notice you attempted to use verbal command-based overrides to attempt to curb my behavior," Now Colress's smile faded, and he actually began to become worried.<br>"I won't lie to you and say I didn't know about them, but before you kill me, perhaps you'd like to know why we brought you back at all?" the former Team Plasma commander held up his hands as a sort of futile warding gesture, hoping the android was in a good mood, though given her behavior so far, he sincerely doubted it.

"Before this goes any further, I think I should interject here," An aged, sepulchral voice spoke from over an intercom located on a nearby wall. Elesa didn't even need to look to analyze where the speaker's true location was, having triangulated the intercom's location, then mapped out the electrical pathways listed on the top-secret facility's blueprints until she found the origin point, an observation room positioned ten meters above them with reinforced one-way mirrors to allow for anonymous viewing of the science going on below. "It was because of us that you were brought back, Elesa. Master Kyurem does not wish for the further loss of key members of the human leadership, not if it can be helped."  
>The mention of Kyurem didn't shock Elesa; she wasn't equipped to register shock. "So it's treason, then," she stated matter-of-factly. Once more an arm reached forth to grasp the neck of Colress, who was skittering away with tense energy.<br>"Treason only applies if he was willfully attempting to harm Unovans, little girl..." the voice chuckled ruefully before cutting off ominously. The ambient temperature of the room decreased rapidly until frost started to appear on certain instruments, and Colress's breath was a visible spectrum of heat and mist as he exhaled.

"Spontaneous creation of localized entropic fields? Interesting..." the scientist couldn't help but become intrigued at the power shown by the newcomer.

"If you'd joined us earlier, Technocrat, you too would have this power," the source of the mysterious voice announced as he stepped forth from the hidden lift at the end of the room, emanating cold energy as his eyes blindly stared at Elesa's new form.  
>"You are Senior Ranger Kei, formerly of the Unovan Defense Force, is that correct?" Elesa remarked upon his identity, causing the lichlike body to give her a rictus grin.<br>"Once, girl, yes. Now I am Thanatos, First Praetor of Kyurem. But enough with the formalities. You, the Technocrat, and I have work to do," the once-man gestured towards Colress, who shivered slightly at the unnerving movement – despite his regular encounters with the humanoid entity calling itself Thanatos – and hurried to follow.

Elesa paused for a few picoseconds to let her vast processing ability come to grips with this new information and all that it implied. Her gaze hardened and she hastened to follow the others, Thanatos walking with calm assurance despite being blind and Colress seeming rather shy next to the undead creature as he shivered in the cold. "Is there any way to turn off that localized entropic field?" Elesa asked curiously as the trio entered a second elevator that would take them to the surface. Thanatos blinked and stared at her with curiosity.  
>"Localized...? Ah, you mean the Gift of the Void. Lord Kyurem entrusted me with that power when I was first sworn to him. I don't usually channel it, to be honest – it just scares the willies out of the fleshies," - here he gestured to a thoroughly unhappy Colress - "and it makes them too cold to think properly." Just as suddenly as the field had appeared, it was gone, and the sensation of all life slipping away into nothingness vanished, replaced by rather warmer, if more sterile, filtered air filling the utilitarian elevator cabin. The scientist gave an audible sigh of relief.<p>

"You know, me being the only un-augmented human here might have its disadvantages. Perhaps, if some of the technology used to resurrect Elesa could be utilized elsewhere..." Colress trailed off invitingly, but Thanatos merely frowned in his direction and the air grew cold again.

"We do not have the authority for that. As it was, the risk we took in developing ELESA was quite enough for our Lord. Your Church may take notice if dozens of androids start showing up all over the continent and saving the day." Colress wilted from the admonition, but Elesa perked up at the comment.  
>"Is that our mission, Praetor? 'Saving the day'?" she inquired. Thanatos merely shrugged as the elevator finally reached its destination and the titanium-paneled doors opened to reveal a massive cave complex stretching before them, the exit several hundred meters southward and at least a dozen meters above them.<br>"Some will call it such, yes. Others will say we are harbingers of doom. I prefer to think of our operation as a first step towards true Unovan unification." The ex-Ranger actually smiled, which gave Elesa reason for concern, the first experience of such an emotion since awakening.  
>"You say unification, but under what banner, I wonder?" Elesa asked cynically, already beginning her ascent towards the exit. Thanatos remained silent at this, only pausing in his pursuit of Elesa to turn around and grab ahold of a very unnerved Colress, who didn't seem to be enjoying this part of the collaboration at all.<br>Within minutes, the three had reached the exit of the cavern and Thanatos took the opportunity to fill the thick silence with a suitably dramatic sentence as they stared, breathlessly, into the rime-coated horizon.  
>"Welcome," he announced heavily, "to the Realm of <em>Wujin<em>, the sacred land of Kyurem, God of Balance."


End file.
